“Come in.”
Two men surrounded by more of the typical fiberboard furniture. One of them in his mid-thirties: mustache and turtleneck, the other twenty years older: gray hair and necktie. They were sitting behind their desks, facing each other, and my first impression was that they had been sitting there since they were born, waiting for the other to finally stick his fingers into the outlet below the light switch. A pile of daily papers lay on the desk to the right, and the one to the left was graced by a framed photograph of a family at a shooting range.
The younger one nodded to me and said “Hello.”
“Hello. Superintendent Höttges?”
He pointed to his opposite number who, after closing a file folder in a decisive manner, turned his face toward me. It was a bony, thin-lipped face with angular cheeks and a firm jaw.
For a moment he seemed to vacillate between just telling me to get out and listening to my nonsense first.
“What’s up?”
“My name’s Kayankaya. I’m a private investigator. I would like to enquire if you know anything about a gang of passport forgers who target rejected asylum applicants and illegal aliens to offer them their services.”
“They target them?” His cold gray eyes held mine. “How do they do that?”
“Well, for instance, by finding out about current cases from various refugee organizations.”
“And what is your interest in this?”
“I am looking for a woman who accepted such an offer.”
“Her name?”
“Erika Mustermann.”
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Inspector Klaase.
He looked amused. Höttges remained poker-faced. “Very funny.”
“No funnier than your question.”
“There is no gang like that.”
“You mean you have no idea?”
He closed his mouth firmly enough to indicate he wouldn’t open it again until it was time to go home. He contemplated his hands, folded in front of him on the desk. His thumbs were tapping against each other.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“All right, then. But perhaps you’ve noticed a recent increase in forged papers—or received information about some place or workshop where non-Germans congregate, regularly and for no obvious reason? The general public is pretty good at noticing such things.”
Höttges did not reply, and for a while the only sound was the tapping of a typewriter next door. Just as I had decided to call it a day, the young Inspector cleared his throat and said, quite cautiously: “There was that thing in Gellersheim—”
Höttges’s stare struck him like a lightning bolt. Still looking at him, Höttges raised his hands, put one on the armrest of his chair and used the other to tweak an ear lobe. I was amazed by the menace with which he charged that simple gesture.
“Don’t you have anything better to do, Klaase?”
“But boss, I—”
“Superintendent, if you please.”
The Inspector’s mouth fell open for a moment. Then he sighed, reached for a file, and sank deeper into his chair.
“As for you, Mr.—”
“Kayankaya.”
“Your visit is over.”
I nodded. “I get it.”
Inspector Klaase empathized with a quick glance across the top of his file. I winked at him, took two business cards out of my pocket and stuck one each on their desk lamps. “Just in case you happen to be in a better mood one day and say to yourself, that nice young man who showed up this morning, we really should—”
“Out!”
6
It was raining again, and as I drove up I saw how the rain was falling right into my apartment. It seemed that I had forgotten to close my windows when I left that morning. I parked the car and rushed across the street and through the front door. As usual, the greengrocer emerged from his apartment at that very moment. To avoid the usual bickering about my radio being too loud, my careless disposal of garbage, or my habit of showering after ten in the evening, I sped toward the staircase. But before I reached the safety of the first landing, he came charging round the corner behind me and for the first time in our shared history of pain and suffering shouted a friendly “Good morning, Mr. Kayankaya!” I almost fell on my face. I turned slowly and gave him a skeptical look.
“Not feeling quite yourself today?”
“Quite the contrary …” He came up the stairs with quick little steps, fussing with his hands. “I just wanted to ask you for a little favor.”
I kept wondering if someone had put something in his coffee.
“Come on, friend. You’re not supposed to know words like that.”
“But Mr. Kayankaya …” A conciliatory smile. “Let’s just forget all that old stuff.”
“Let’s not. And besides, my apartment is flooding.”
“Just one moment, please!”
He moved up one step so that we stood face to face and I could smell the gravy and applesauce of his dinner.
“Let me tell you what this is about. Several tenants, myself included, would like to put up a billboard on the front of the building, but we need the landlord’s permission. And so, to convince Mr. Kunze of the worth of our endeavor, we’ve been collecting signatures for a petition—and yours would be particularly important.”
“A billboard?” I gaped at him. “To advertise cigarettes or margarine or—?”
“No, but one proclaiming … shared goals and values which we would like to make known to the public, or in this case, our street.”
“What kinds of values?”
“Political and social ones, but philosophical ones as well, concerning humanity as such.”
“Have you gone nuts? What is it you want up there on the wall?”
“Well, you see … I hope you won’t be prejudiced … To cut a long story short, we are members of the district association of the Republikaner Party, and we would like to provide the party with some thought-provoking publicity.”
I breathed out slowly. Then I asked: “Who’s ‘we’?”
“My wife and I. The theme of the first series of billboards will be: Germany—so great—,” he beamed at me, “that there’s room even for our guests.”
“Who has signed your petition?”
“Until now, everyone I’ve asked. People like the theme. Mrs. Augstein on the fourth floor, Mr. Walser, and that young couple, Knapp and Kretschmann.”
The faces attached to those names appeared to my mind’s eye.
“An alcoholic lady, a senile guy, and two idiots—quite a team. What about the Benmessous, or Mr. Karagiannidis?” He retreated three or four steps. “Or the Metins, who buy at least half of your miserable vegetables? Have you asked them, too?”
“Yes, but—” He put more steps between us; I followed, and slowly we progressed back down to the ground floor.
“—but it looks like they haven’t managed to shut you up. Or maybe they felt sorry for a pitiful asshole like you.”
He stumbled around the end of the banister and looked at me through the black iron railing. The corners of his eyes twitched.
“Here one tries to be open-minded—”
I came at him, and he turned and ran to his apartment door. Half hidden by the doorframe, he wagged his index finger at me and shouted: “So now we’re being threatened in our own building! But just you wait! When we get to run the show.…” The door slammed. Silence.
I stood there for a while. It occurred to me that if this was an example of the courage and intelligence with which Republikaners pursued their goals, their party wasn’t long for this world. On the other hand, I had always regarded even that old souse Mrs. Augstein as slightly off the beam but nevertheless capable of making distinctions.
Since I was sure my bed would be soaked by now, I walked back to the mailbox and pulled out a bundle of bills and junk mail. I did not notice the handwritten note.
In my apartment I tossed the mail on the bed and closed th
e windows: Then I went to the kitchen, checked the freezer, and picked the beef goulash. I unwrapped the package and tossed the frozen brick into a saucepan. Just as the stovetop began to make sizzling noises, the phone rang. On the way to my chair I picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes and opened a beer. I made myself comfortable and picked up the phone. “Kayankaya.”
“This is Klaase.”
“Oh, Inspector—I had been hoping you’d call.”
“I thought so, too. Found your number in the book. The old man took your business card.”
“He’s quite the sergeant-major, isn’t he?”
“Not too bad. He throws the occasional fit, but we get along most of the time.”
“Mhm.”
“But after you left, I remembered … You’re the detective who caught Superintendent Futt, a few years ago?”
“Yes.”
“I was impressed, even though he was a colleague.” He chortled. “Maybe because I was one of Futt’s trainees.”
I laughed a little just to make him feel good. Then I asked: “What about Gellersheim?”
“We got a complaint last night. One Olga Bartels claims that for six months, at regular intervals, large groups of foreigners have been brought to stay in the villa next to hers. Always different ones, and they always stay only three or four days.”
“Whose villa is it?”
“No idea. We didn’t do anything about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because we get complaints like that every day, and the old man said he was sure this woman was just another one of those alarmists who have nothing better to do than stay glued to their front window all day.”
“That’s how he put it?”
“More or less.”
“The address?”
“Number six Am Rosenacker.”
I jotted it down on a television magazine and sipped my beer.
“If you get so many complaints, why are you telling me about this particular one?”
“Because it involves larger groups, and because of their short stays. Normally, the complaints involve families or single persons whom people suspect to be in hiding.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about forged papers?”
“Nothing special. The usual amateurish stuff: erased dates, altered photos, and so on.”
“Well, then, Inspector, I’m much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it. We’re all doing our job. And don’t mind the old man. He hasn’t had such an easy life.”
I hung up. Gee, I thought: was that the immigration police or the Salvation Army?
On the TV, McEnroe was wiping out a taciturn Swede. I drank my beer and watched him tell a female referee something about his backside. I wished that Sri Dao would reappear that evening: case closed. The villa in Gellersheim was probably inhabited by a wealthy family that really enjoyed vacations. Tanned faces and frequent absences must have given Mrs. Olga the impression that this had to be a nest of gypsies.
Ten minutes later, the goulash was warm. With some bread and a plateful of the stew I sat down to the tie break. Six five. Six six. Double fault McEnroe, six seven. The Swede’s turn to serve. I spilled goulash on my pants. Second serve—return on the line, seven seven. The bread was turning back to dough between my fingertips. Long exchange, McEnroe to the net, save of the century—eight seven! Deep breath. Change of service. Left and right forearm raised to forehead. Take position. Not a sound. Serve, ball in court, backhand return, half-volley, lob, smash, the Swede leaps—and misses. I detached the bread from my fingers and picked up the spoon again. At the beginning of the second set, the doorbell rang.
“What do you know.”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d look in …”
I held the door open. “If it doesn’t bother you to watch tennis with a cop.”
Slibulsky rolled his eyes. We went back in, and he draped his soaked overcoat over the radiator. His cast had turned gray from moisture. I leaned against the doorjamb,
“Should I close the curtains?”
“Maybe you could cut the bullshit and offer me a bowl of stew? God, is it shitty out there.”
I went to the kitchen and heated up the goulash. When I came back, Slibulsky sat leaning forward in my chair, following the game through his dark shades. I handed him the plate and sat next to him on the armrest.
“What’s the score?”
“First set for us.”
We spooned goulash into our mouths for a while. As the Swede was serving in the fourth game, Slibulsky set his plate aside, wiped his mouth and said: “Pretty vile stuff. By the way—I know the name of that guy.”
I set my spoon back on the plate.
“Boy, you’re really building suspense—should I wait to serve the dessert while you proceed with further revelations?”
“Come off it. It’s useless information in any case. The guy was put behind bars two weeks ago for receiving stolen goods. Name’s Mario Beckmann.”
“Is that info from Charlie?”
“No, from a guy at the Queen of Hearts.”
We stared at each other briefly. Then I shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t have been any use to me anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s a gang of forgers.”
I took the plates back to the kitchen. Slibulsky shouted:
“What’s your next move?”
“Got a tip. A villa in Gellersheim.”
“Where?”
“Gellersheim!”
I put the saucepan in the refrigerator. Winding things up, McEnroe metamorphosed an overhead ball and made the break. Slibulsky growled his appreciation. I waited for the first serve—fifteen love. Then I took a fresh shirt out of the closet and kicked my shoes under the bed.
“And how do you like being a snooper?”
After a moment’s silence, he growled back from the chair: “Kayankaya, do you know what makes you such an exceptional detective? It’s your ability to stay stuck for weeks on the same thing …”
Ten minutes later I had shaved and changed clothes. I stepped out of the bathroom, picked the mail off the bed, and sat on the armrest again. Slibulsky had stretched out his legs and sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly hampered in that pose by his plaster cast. Now the score was five three.
“You don’t know what you missed.” Without turning his gaze away from the screen, Slibulsky waved his left arm. “He’s at the net, he’s made two returns, the ball comes down the line, he has to jump, and then—he just smashes it back, in mid-air!”
I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the mail: phone bill, power bill, a letter from the building management, stacks of advertisements, and then suddenly the handwritten note. It was awkwardly penned on a sheet from an Interconti Frankfurt hotel note pad: “The girl is in Dietzenbach, at After Hours.” I stared at it, not sure what to think. Then I handed it to Slibulsky: “You know the joint?”
A pause.
“I think it’s a brothel for queers.” He looked up. “What would they want a girl for?”
“I have no idea. But someone must have had one.”
Slibulsky scratched his neck. “If even the queers are muscling in on this trade in women—then things are getting really weird.”
Match point McEnroe. Loud yelling. “Quiet, please”—an ace, with the look that indicates he finds it hard to believe he has to deal with such a low-grade opponent.
I got up and took my Beretta from the shelf. “The next game is Becker against Carl Arsch. But I have to go now.”
“To Gellersheim?”
“No, to Dietzenbach.”
I put in the clip. Slibulsky reached for the remote control.
“If someone calls?”
“Get their name and number and tell them I’ll call back tomorrow. There’s beer in the icebox.”
On my way down I ran into Mr. Knapp. He studied biology, owned a car plastered with campground stickers from all over the world and equipped with a removable tape player, which he carri
ed around everywhere, as well as a girlfriend who also was a biology student. This time he was carrying the tape player and a cordovan briefcase with a combination lock. His outfit was beige. Even his green jacket was beige, somehow. He would probably look beige even if he wore a black suit with red polka dots.
As always, he greeted me cordially: “Guten Tag.” As never before, I replied: “Heil Hitler!”
Totally confused, wildly waving his briefcase and tape player, he stopped and stuttered. “Wha—what did you say?”
“Didn’t you sign that petition? For the Republikaner billboard?”
“But …,” he shook his head in protest, “I didn’t do it because I support their aims—on the contrary. In fact, I am an outspoken—how should I put it …” He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, searching for the word. “Friend of foreigners.” He nodded and beamed.
“If I’m included in that,” I said, “you better watch out that this friend doesn’t punch you in the nose.”
“Please don’t say that, Mr. Kayankaya. I signed only because I think it is important to give everyone a chance to voice his opinion freely—this is a democracy, after all.”
“Right. Even when there are times when it seems as if that freedom of expression had been reserved only for Republikaners—and people who have no opinion—it is still available to others. And on that note, Mr. Knapp,” I raised my right arm, “break a leg!”
7
“You’re my baby, baby, baby—oh yeah. You’re my sunshine, sunshine, sunshine—oh yeah. You’re my—” krzzzzzzfghtntrzzzzzz “—the Chancellor put on a hat in honor of the Jewish victims of National Socialism. President Richard von Weizsacker, who also attended the ceremony, concluded his speech by asking, aren’t we all human beings, after all? And I agree wholeheartedly: Yes! Yes, we are human beings. The weather—” krzzzzzzzerbgmgnzzzzzz “—in the light of stars far away, I love you night and day, as if we were two stars, shining there so fa—” krzzzzzzzzfghnlrtzzzzzzz “—now a purely technical question, Mr. Fips. How do you manage to concentrate on your text while Simultaneously trying to beat a hole into the table top with your forehead? Just considering the rhythmical—” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my texts are bursts fired into the dark future.” “I see, well, that’s nicely put. But you haven’t answered my question. Could you tell us something about the visual aspect—what do you do when blood starts running into your eyes? Do you wear sweatbands on your wrists, like a tennis player, or does it just fly off to the side?” “In my heart lives a machine gun, and my words are bursts into the dark future—if you like, I can read a poetic sequence that will answer your question.” “Uh—well, why not. But please let’s not have any blood stains on the carpeting—” krzzzzzzfgnerzzzz “—the President’s speech yesterday, on the theme Joy through Peace, at the beginning of the NATO exercise Friendly Touch, met with both national and international acclaim …”
One Man, One Murder Page 5
